


why, why can't this moment last forevermore?

by aellesiym (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Drunk!Crowley, Established Relationship, Eurovision, Fluff, M/M, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, this whole thing is basically self-indulgent fluffy smut oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 06:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20041156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/aellesiym
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley watch Eurovision together. Apparently Crowley really likes being called 'nice'.





	why, why can't this moment last forevermore?

“Is this one of yours or one of ours?” asks Aziraphale, squinting at the television. Crowley lifts his head from the angel's lap and follows his gaze, his brow creasing.

“What's this?”

“Apparently they're calling it a ‘Euro Vision Song Contest’.”

“Eurovision, huh. Erm. Must be one of yours – there's too much love in it. Oh, and peace,” he replies, trying to parse the explosion of glamour and music and glitter, his eyes fixed on the performer’s voluminous dress, mesmerized. It's a deep, deep midnight blue, sprinkled with sparkles, sweeping the polished stage with every undulating movement.

“Can’t be. It’s much too … _much_. Just, all of it,” says Aziraphale, sketching a vague shape with his hands. “And yet – I do think I like this.” He absentmindedly ruffles Crowley’s hair and Crowley leans into his touch, propping himself up by the elbow. The woman on-screen continues to sing, reaching a crescendo as fire erupts from the stage, bursts of gold and scarlet framing her figure, in perfect sync with the melody.

“I really can't cope with this while I'm sober,” Aziraphale mutters, pouring himself a glass of wine. Crowley reaches up, plucking the drink from his fingers and taking a long draught, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips before handing it back. “Neither can I,” he says, grinning mischievously as he traces circles across Aziraphale's knee, the motion lazy and languid, his fingers gentle and deft across the fabric. He has long since discarded his glasses upon the carpet, his legs strewn across the sofa.

The camera pans to the audience as the song finishes, the crowds and crowds of people waving a thousand thousand flags – tricolour flags of three stripes; horizontal and vertical, Pride flags, even a lone maple leaf; an enormous hall of fluttering fabric, diverse in design and colour. Aziraphale points some out to Crowley, on the brink of an anecdote – _I met the designer of that once, she was a truly interesting fellow_ – before it cuts away to a pastel montage of scenery.

“There's no way this is one of ours,” says Crowley, “Hell would never, in a million years, have the creativity for this. Though, I doubt Heaven would either.” He leans back, curling up; his shoulder blades pressing into Aziraphale's stomach, his arms draped over the angel's thighs, relishing the warmth coiling through his body. “Why is the piano burning?”

“Erm. Oh. It is. Can't imagine why. And … is that … _snow_? Crowley – what is this?”

“You know, angel, I'm not quite sure anymore,” says Crowley, grasping the wine bottle and gulping it down.

The piano continues to smoulder.

* * *

Three hours and four bottles later, Crowley has forgotten how to blink. Twilight has turned to night, its inky darkness spilling through the windows, dotted with starlight. The jury votes are rolling in, the background music drumming tension into his veins.

_Twelve points go to…_

_Congratulations! Douze points!_

Crowley waves his hand, summoning Aziraphale's coat from his shoulders and wrapping himself in it, warm from the angel's heat, soft and divine. Aziraphale manoeuvres the wine bottle out of Crowley's hands and takes a sip, then places it out of the demon's reach. “My dear, who are we voting for?”

“Ngk. Voting's over, angel. Long … over? Must've missed it,” says Crowley, his speech slurred. “Probably should've voted, erm, UK, but, it's not like it was, well … good. Oh, and I don't think we could've, anyway. I did like … the Never – Netherlands – one I s'pose. That one with the … hair! The hair. Yeah. That one.” Aziraphale smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as he snakes his hand down Crowley's side, letting it rest on his waist. Crowley makes an undignified noise, drawing Aziraphale’s arm tighter around himself; letting him caress his chest. His touch is delicate, trailing heat with every motion. Aziraphale pauses over his heart, feeling the quickening beat under his fingertips as Crowley meets his gaze, eyes like liquid honey.

The presenters continue to speak, their beaming expressions frozen in place as they call each country, leaving the artists backstage quivering with anxiety, their hands trembling as they fidget with their outfits, smoothing the fabric with their palms. Crowley has stiffened up, leaning forward as he peers into the screen with irritation.

“They keep dith … talking, I just – I just want to know who wins, for hell's sake. Oh, why do I even care, angel?” he groans, burying his face into Aziraphale's lap and nipping his thigh.

“Well. I think it’s beautiful, Crowley. The spectacle of it all, it’s simply magnificent – a uniting force that sweeps through the airwaves, across nations and borders, through music and—” he says, interrupted by a muffled groan of impatience. Aziraphale sighs, snapping his fingers. A cup of hot cocoa appears in Crowley’s hand, the handle shaped like a devil’s tail.

“Thanks,” mutters Crowley, sitting up and raising the mug to his lips. “I should probably sober up.”

* * *

Crowley closes his eyes through most of the public vote, cradling the cocoa as he feigns nonchalance. Aziraphale knows better, unfurling his opalescent wings and cradling the demon within them. Crowley nuzzles his cheek against the feathers, then turns around and kisses Aziraphale on his shoulder, lingering just a touch too short.

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“You're too kind, darling.”

“Angel, I'm not – 'm not kind, or nice, or anything like that, at all. I'm a bloody _demon_,” he growls, his glittering eyes betraying his growing hunger.

“I think … I think you like being called nice,” says Aziraphale. A small grin plays at the corner of his mouth as he folds his wings, sinking back against the cushions. “And lovely, too. A complete sweetheart.”

Crowley grabs his lapels and gently hauls him closer, straddling Aziraphale's hips between his thighs. “Say that again, and I'll—”

“_Sweetheart_.”

“Oh, you _bastard_,” Crowley murmurs as Aziraphale leans forward, twining his fingers through his hair and pulling him into a kiss. Crowley relaxes against him, shrugging off the coat and folding it with a miracle. He pulls away slightly, still grazing the angel's skin as he moves down his neck, trailing kisses, tender and fleeting.

“Crowley, dear, you're delightful,” breathes Aziraphale, watching as the demon's expression clouds over in lust.

With a sharp smile, Crowley tugs at his bowtie with his teeth, smoothly undoing the knot as his hands roam over his waistcoat, his palms warm on Aziraphale's chest, sending shivers of want down his body. Slowly, dragging the seconds out, he starts to unfasten the buttons, lacing his fingers underneath in careful movements, lethargic and precise despite his rising impatience. Aziraphale is acutely aware of every brush of Crowley's fingertips, dancing across his chest, every slight rock of his hips, pushing up against him, every shift in Crowley's breathing, increasingly laboured.

“Angel, could you … keep talking?” asks Crowley, stroking the collar of Aziraphale's shirt. He drags a finger lower, undoing the button at his throat and continuing downwards, taking his sweet time.

“Of course, dearest,” says Aziraphale, shuddering as Crowley presses a kiss on the hollow of his neck, hot and desperate. “You should know, I do think you're absolutely magnificent,” he continues, splaying his hand against Crowley's chest and guiding him back. “This demon thing, this label, it's not you. You're truly, genuinely, _good_.”

Crowley's head falls back against the loveseat, his eyes closed, his breath hitching at every compliment. Aziraphale is sprawled on top of him, conscious of the slight trembles racking Crowley's body as he nips at his ear.

“And don't you ever forget that, dear,” Aziraphale whispers, removing Crowley's shirt with a wave of his hand. “I hope that you'll remember all of the tiny kindnesses that you've shown me – all the grand gestures as well; all of the questions you asked because it was the right thing to do. Crowley,” says Aziraphale, caressing his stomach, “I really love you.” He lets his fingers skim over Crowley's ribs, eliciting a whimper as he glides over his skin.

“Crowley,” he sighs, burying his head in the crook of his neck, “you're divine.” Aziraphale kisses bruises along the underside of his jaw, feeling Crowley's muscles tighten with every flutter of his lips, feeling the way Crowley fits under him, all his angles and edges entwined around him, delicate, yielding. “Simply _divine_.” Crowley exhales shakily, his gaze unfocused.

“Thanks, angel,” stutters Crowley, winding his arms around Aziraphale, possessive.

“Shall we continue this in the bedroom?” asks Aziraphale, dipping his hand under Crowley's belt.

“_Please_.”

* * *

Later, there is the quiet breathing, in tandem; the interlocked limbs, laced with warmth; cosy. Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s chest, his dark hair silky against his skin, their fingers knit together.

There is the ticking of the clock, rhythmic; the ambient rasps and creaks of the flat; the hum of traffic outside; the glow of the streetlamps seeping in.

“Aziraphale, did they ever say who won the contest?” Crowley asks, leaning into the embrace.

“I’m sure they did,” Aziraphale replies, smiling softly. “I think we just missed it.”


End file.
